gillian anderson

Gillian Anderson was once a young person experimenting.

“I don’t even know if I was questioning my sexuality but there were a couple of moments during my teen years where I was with women,” Anderson tells me candidly on a recent afternoon at a Beverly Hills hotel. “I haven’t really spoken about that very much.”

Though she won’t go into details about those early interactions, she remembers the isolation that plagued her. “In interviews, I’ve alluded to a relationship that I had later in my post-college life, but not about that particular time and how not even confused, but just alone I felt and how different I felt to the rest of the kids in my high school,” she adds.

For some time now, the once and forever “X-Files” star has leaned into episodic television (Netflix, she says, has become a great partner). She earned her second Emmy in 2021 for her blistering turn as polarizing British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in “The Crown.” Yet a major shade of her public persona has become her activism around sex positivity, encouraging women to open up about their needs and wants, both in the bedroom and as individuals in every aspect of their lives.

“It seems to still be an important topic for women to hear other women speak about,” she says. “I have come to love talking about it in the context of women’s empowerment, finding ways to embrace their own integral agency.”

Clad in a sleeveless bright green dress, Anderson, 57, radiates an ageless grace, undeniably sophisticated yet unpretentious in her demeanor. Her hair in a braid evokes the look of a figure from ancient Rome. When speaking in her unmistakable throaty voice, her expressive body language (hand movements often complement her sentences) reveals her assertiveness. That confidence makes it difficult to imagine she ever was a fragile teen.

Hannah Einbinder and Gillian Anderson in the movie “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma.”

(Mubi)

In Anderson’s latest movie, the horror-tinged, dreamlike “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” (in theaters Friday), Anderson plays Billy Presley, a reclusive former scream queen who was one of those “final girls” from a popular 1980s slasher horror franchise in which the killer was aptly called Little Death (a nickname for an orgasm, derived from a French phrase). Now Billy spends her days alone living in the woodsy location where her breakout movie was filmed long ago.

That is until auspicious indie filmmaker Kris (“Hacks” star Hannah Einbinder) comes to visit Billy with the intention of persuading her to act in a reboot. The two develop a friendship that empowers Kris to dive into her unspoken sexual yearnings — desires drenched in fear, violence and curiosity — with Billy as her mentor and, eventually, patient lover.

On top of her ability with accents (she does a Southern one here), Anderson physically commands the screen from the moment she makes an entrance worthy of a timeless diva. Her regal aura contrasts with the grotesque sensuality of a scene where fried chicken and dipping sauces take on an almost pornographic lure. Her Billy, a woman who can fluctuate between a loud cackle and an introspective speech about the lust-inducing “flesh and fluids” of horror movies, feels equal parts otherworldly and tethered to earthly urges.

“I knew on a deep level that I wanted to be a part of it, but it’s only in retrospect that I completely understand why it was so meaningful to me,” Anderson says. “It feels like such a salve for so many.”

“She put everyone at ease during those moments in a really beautiful way,” says director Jane Schoenbrun of Anderson’s work with Einbinder on their most daring scenes. “She is so physically tapped into her own abilities.”

(Mubi)

Einbinder, with whom Anderson shares scenes of blood-soaked eroticism, describes the veteran star as meticulous and diligent while also having a “lot of access to spontaneity.”

“I was a fan of her from, of course, ‘The X Files’ and a lot of her other work, so she just held this significance to me as an artist,” Einbinder tells me over the phone, “but meeting her, my expectations were surpassed because she’s really cool.”

“I didn’t want Billy to come across as a predator,” Anderson says. “I didn’t want her to be creepy or too maternal and so there were moments where she shows care, and it was a really fine line of how to play those beats. Even our first kiss and our sex scenes were very specific so that it didn’t feel not OK to be witnessing or representing.”

To Jane Schoenbrun, the movie’s writer and director, Anderson has the “elegance of old Hollywood, a classic mystique.” The filmmaker describes meeting her as a “strange coming home feeling,” since her “X-Files” character Scully held a special place in Schoenbrun’s formative years. “I spent as much time with her as I did with my siblings,” they add.

Schoenbrun credits Anderson as a “calming and nurturing presence” during the sex scenes between her and Einbinder — the first sex scenes the filmmaker had ever directed.

“Gillian had such an elegant, serious, professional but also caring perspective on how to talk about it and how to guide through it in a way that felt like it was going to be very present and alive on screen,” Schoenbrun recalls. “She put everyone at ease during those moments in a really beautiful way. She is so physically tapped into her own abilities.”

Anderson, seated with director Schoenbrun on the set of “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma.”

(David Astorga / Mubi)

Anderson found her way into playing Billy through the character’s distinct accent. Having played the tragically romantic Blanche DuBois from “A Streetcar Named Desire” on stage in the past, she aimed for a different version of Southern. “What I liked about it was this particular pitch that holds strength and vulnerability in it, which I think is very much where Billy lives at all times, from minute to minute,” she says.

Other recent TV roles have steered Anderson in the direction of an unabashedly queer storyteller like Schoenbrun. Jean Milburn, Anderson’s humorously matter-of-fact sex therapist from the series “Sex Education,” represented a watershed beginning in 2019.

It was because of the success of that show that she was approached to write “Want,” a 2024 book that collected the sexual fantasies of anonymous women (a follow-up, “More,” is out in September from Abrams Press).

“Sex Education” also inspired Anderson to launch her own brand of soft drinks cheekily called G Spot (they are caffeine-free and infused with vitamins and minerals). Some retailers, she says, have refused to use the drink’s name. “We’ve had so much pushback on the name and I refuse to be cowed, to be shut down, to be told that it’s a dirty word or that it shouldn’t be in public spaces,” she says.

“The strange thing is I don’t identify with Scully in the same way I do with other characters that I played for much less time,” Anderson says. “Part of that is because of how square she was. I have such an intrinsically rebellious nature.”

(Ian Spanier / For The Times)

For Anderson, humor is an important component of the conversations she wants people to have about sex and sexuality. During her time on “Sex Education,” she started posting pictures on Instagram of props on set that resembled both male and female genitalia. Some of her posts kept getting blocked.

“There were all these amazing things, from chess pieces that were phallic to a soap holder that was a yoni,” she says, smiling. “We started to call them ‘penis or yoni of the day.’ Then fans started posting back to me pictures of penises or yonis of the day they would see in nature.”

Anderson doesn’t quite understand the swath of Gen Zers who deride sex in movies and is, in general, uncomfortable with the subject of physical connection.

“For my younger kids, who are late-teens, the thought of picking up a phone to [call] somebody that they’re interested in feels so intimate,” Anderson says. “If a phone call is intimate and your conversations on a regular basis are snapshots of your face making funny images, then the idea of going into deep intimacy must be absolutely terrifying.”

She’s hopeful that young people might start to turn toward in-person activities to bond. But while the subjects of pleasure and open-mindedness captivate her, on screen Anderson is not letting the industry pigeonhole her.

Anderson’s recent output includes playing a shadowy operative with icy conviction in the thriller “Animals” opposite Ben Affleck, and a Nazi guard in the limited series “The Boys From Brazil,” both coming to Netflix in the near future. And in last year’s “Trespasses,” another TV show, she became a Northern Irish alcoholic mother. “I wouldn’t have guessed that at my age I would be having so many different and varied opportunities,” Anderson says.

In the aftermath of her time on “The X Files,” Anderson moved to London, both because she longed for the city where she partially grew up and for a chance at reinventing herself professionally.

“I’d never had my own publicist before that,” she says. “Had I had one, they probably would’ve tried to convince me that moving to London was the worst thing I could do for my career.”

For a long time, Anderson’s relationship with Dana Scully was complicated. “I felt like everything that I did was in an effort to get away from Scully,” Anderson admits. “Then when people would bring it up or I would do a 45-minute interview and they would ask one question about ‘The X-Files,’ they would use my refusing to talk about it as an excuse to make it the headline.”

It made it challenging for her to be considered for film roles and even for TV projects of a different vein.

“Now you have A-list actors, the Nicole Kidmans, moving between TV and film,” she says, “but back during ‘The X-Files,’ if you were on telly, it was the B, if not C version of what an actor’s life could be.”

In England, though, the likes of Judi Dench, Maggie Smith or Glenda Jackson had always navigated effortlessly between the big and small screen and the stage. “That’s the life that I wanted,” Anderson adds. “The minute I moved there, the quality of the stuff and also the range of characters that I was being offered was so different from what I’d been doing for almost 10 years as Scully.”

“The House of Mirth,” Terence Davies’ 2000 period drama based on the satirical 1905 novel by Edith Wharton, represented a breakthrough. “At the very beginning, I remember I was so surprised that there were other people who thought that I might be able to do something else other than Scully.” (When I tell her how extraordinary she is in “Mirth” as a socialite caught between stability and something more passionate, Anderson replies with a bashful, whispered “Thank you.”)

And while she can now think of “The X Files” as the “blessing” that it signified in her career, Anderson is clear that she has more often seen herself reflected in other women she’s inhabited, such as Blanche or Stella Gibson, the detective she played in the series “The Fall” starting in 2013.

“The strange thing is I don’t identify with Scully in the same way I do with other characters that I played for much less time,” Anderson confesses. “Part of that is because of how square she was. I have such an intrinsically rebellious nature. I can, obviously, play square, but I think because of that, she didn’t necessarily get her hooks inside me in the way that some of these other characters that really push against the establishment did.”

Anderson is not entirely opposed to appearing on Ryan Coogler’s just-announced “X-Files” reboot, but she is far more excited about several sci-fi projects she is currently developing (one of them she describes as “huge” in scale). They will bring her back to similar territory, but this time on her own terms.

“It’s the first time that I’m properly going into the genre and embracing it and instigating that work,” Anderson says. “I’m very excited about those but no doubt when it comes time to do press around them, there’s going to be a lot of ‘X Files’ talk, inevitably.”

She’ll be ready for it. At once pragmatic and playful, Anderson seems to be taking on the world these days like someone who’s unraveled a deeper mystery.

“Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” is a witty, gory slasher-romance that feels so personal to writer-director Jane Schoenbrun that they’ve essentially sliced out their soul and smeared it on the screen.

“Hacks’” Hannah Einbinder plays a rising director named Kris, a Sundance darling and Schoenbrun avatar of sorts who wants to convince a long-forgotten scream queen named Billy Presley (Gillian Anderson) to star in her next movie. It’s a resurrection of the fictitious “Camp Miasma” franchise, a hack-’em-up about hormonal camp counselors slaughtered by a gender-bending, spear-wielding killer called Little Death, who has an air-conditioning vent for a face. (The reason why sort of makes sense when you see his lair.) Billy played the final girl in the 1983 original film, then disappeared. And so Kris heads out to Billy’s snowbound hideaway — which just so happens to be where the movie was shot.

Young Billy (a riveting Amanda Fix) imprinted on Kris in a way she can’t articulate. Smoking weed with the real woman will hopefully help. Anderson’s Billy steps out of the shadows with a full face of femme fatale makeup and a syrupy Dolly Parton drawl, promptly serving Kris enough fried chicken to feed a bobsled team. Has Anderson ever had more fun onscreen? Her performance presents as camp, but her dynamic range of loud cackles and quiet glances is fabulous.

Acting in a film within a film, Fix’s version of teenage Billy is so nervous it seems impossible she’ll become Anderson’s diva. You can practically hear the girl’s heart beating so loud that it breaks your own. The two Billys almost snatch the movie from under its lead. But then toward the climax, Einbinder has a powerful close-up that puts the film back in her pocket. (Metaphorically, that is — by then, her character isn’t wearing any pants.)

Kris’ breakout movie was a high-concept inversion of “Psycho” told through the shower curtain’s POV. Yet she’s well aware that the studio hired her to rescue the “Camp Miasma” franchise not for her genius but because she’s queer and the internet has deemed Little Death “problematic.” The satirical scenes of Kris’ agent (Sarah Sherman) getting annoyed that her client can’t pitch a four-quadrant movie are hilarious while also ringing of truth.

Likewise, Schoenbrun specializes in zeitgeisty fables about 21st century isolation. Their own debut, the 2021 micro-budget internet thriller “We’re All Going to the World’s Fair,” was simultaneously mesmerizing and tedious, a mental breakdown that burrowed so deeply inside its own world that several COVID-era high schoolers I know felt like it had been made just for them.

A strange thing about Schoenbrun is that even when I haven’t liked their work, I’ve left the theater certain that I just watched what will be someone else’s favorite film of all time. (The affectless disassociation of 2024’s “I Saw the TV Glow” drove me bonkers.) Yet “Camp Miasma” finds Schoenbrun bravely opening up and getting vulnerable. It’s not just a lament about loneliness; it’s a challenge to change your perspective and maybe your life.

I suspect Schoenbrun could deliver a five-hour TED Talk on the pop cultural kitsch of “Friday the 13th’s” Jason Voorhees. They’re so fluent in how Hollywood squeezes the fun out of a franchise that they can convey “Camp Miasma’s” descent into schlock in a sprightly opening montage that sees Little Death become a trading card, a bobblehead, an 8-bit video game, an anti-drug spokesman and a novelty rapper. Over 13 sequels, the character’s trail of nubile corpses stretches from Manhattan to Mars to Quibi.

Kris pops in a disc of “Camp Miasma’s” tawdry 2008 reboot, which cinematographer Eric Yue makes look as flat as the discounted DVD. As that movie’s disposable bimbo strips off her top, the score cranks up a porno-chic song and Kris scribbles the word “desire” in her notebook in all caps. But the contrast between that sham seduction footage and a 35mm reel of the original “Camp Miasma” is like night and day — or rather, trash and art. Kris and Billy watch that one together in an intimate sleepover, sinking into the murky texture of a scene in which the virginal actor allowed a jerk to take off her clothes.

Schoenbrun loves the movie-ness of movies. You can see their devotion in outdoor backdrops that are deliriously false, in sight gags that reference Cronenberg and Carpenter or in production design that includes the perfect nostalgic ’90s video store carpet. Inside Billy’s private movie theater, the projector beams down on the back of Anderson’s head like that infamous Nicole Kidman AMC promo. Maybe I’m loopy, but I’d even swear the entrance to Billy’s screening room has a handmade mural of the Roku City screensaver. Watch for clues when the storyline we’re watching becomes its own nested narrative.

Horror fans waiting for jump scares will be thwarted. At least there are several sequences of macabre murder-comedy with blood geysers shooting up to the sky and a tracking shot through a killing spree that’s a riot. The soundtrack sets a more accurate tone right away with a gentle cover of R.E.M.’s “Nightswimming” that segues into Alex G’s dreamy synths. Yet Schoenbrun’s needle drops also seem to have been chosen to make the audience chuckle. A massacre set to the Counting Crows’ piano-and-accordion ballad “A Long December” is bizarre. (The only excuse I can think of is that Little Death hibernates at the bottom of a frozen lake?)

It feels like a magic trick when the film finally reveals where it’s going. “Teenage Sex and Death” is about climbing out of your head, admitting what you want and allowing yourself to enjoy it. Sexually, yes — that’s right in the title — and creatively, too, as Schoenbrun wants us to keep loving movies that make us squirm.

Lately, it’s been hard to talk about difficult art, with culture warriors deeming entire filmographies unworthy of enjoyment. People have gotten so used to preemptively apologizing for what they like that their mea culpas feel as reflexive as a sneeze. But Schoenbrun sticks up for the right to forgive a movie’s flaws. Here, when Kris anxiously whispers that a scene in the first “Camp Miasma” is transphobic, Billy gives her a shush.

We’ve all got our kinks, including ones for canceled flicks. (I still adore “Revenge of the Nerds” despite its god-awful rape joke.) Kris can intellectualize her “Camp Miasma” fandom all she wants. But Billy counters that the appeal of “Camp Miasma” is simple: “It’s flesh and fluids,” she says. And since she’s still living in it, we believe her.